


a history only you and I could write

by aceholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (between Joan and Marcus), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Infidelity, Who Knows?, also playing fast and loose with historical accuracy, this fic is not nice to Mary (as Marcus), time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceholmes/pseuds/aceholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I'm told it's customary to dance with your wife at these sort of things, not your illicit lover.'</p><p>'What about the abandoned wife dancing with strange women,' Joan returned, a little too tipsy from the wine to fear the repercussions of her forwardness. 'Is that customary?'</p><p>AU loosely based on the biopic 'The Duchess' (or if you haven't seen it: AU where they're both aristocratic ladies but Joan Watson is the Duchess of Northumberland and unhappily married to a horrible, unfaithful man.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a history only you and I could write

**Author's Note:**

> I'll admit it, this fic was inspired by my raging crushes on Hayley Atwell and Kiera Knightly (who are both in the film)
> 
> Biggest thanks ever to Vince who may as well have ghostwrote this for all the motivation she gave me. Also thanks and apologies to anyone that I hassled about this on Twitter (that's you, Stranger Gays! Also Jake, even though you left us)
> 
> All mistakes are my own because I'm just too lazy to properly proofread/get someone else to, and also because I wrote a lot of it at 4am over multiple days.

_8th October, 1779_

Sherlock regarded the room with a blank gaze, running her finger just above the dust coated windowsill ridge; her careful digits never touched anything, but the need was there. She was ungrounded. Those flighty fingers shifted up and down like the tide; impulsive and rhythmic, never quite settling in one position.

'I don't think I understand,' Joan said softly, her own idle hands reaching up to stroke down Sherlock's silk swathed arms. 'Have I missed something?'

'It isn't complicated, Your Grace. I'm simply asking you to run away with me.'

 

* * *

 

  _1st January, 1778_

The journey across England was an arduous and ultimately pointless one, convoluted by various visits to tepid lords and ladies and those of 'significant political influence'. And wasn't that the purpose of everything Mycroft did? The man was especially greedy when it came to both power and food, and why Sherlock had to be dragged along when she had at least ten pending experiments running back home was beyond her.

Although, to be agonisingly honest, Alnwick was as breathtaking as all the frivolous socialites back in London had claimed it to be. The wonders of the place were a true sight to behold, from the soft glow of the winter's sunset against almost ancient rock and fresh, crystalline snow, to the clusters of towers of turrets, which loomed over the approaching carriages. Their enormity allowed them to sit proud and rigid, gazing over the sweeping track and the surrounding countryside.

'Are you listening to me, Sherlock?'

Sherlock allowed herself another of her trademark petulant sighs, running a flat fingertip through the condensation it formed on the glass of the pitiful carriage window. She hadn't been listening. Instead, she'd been busy cataloging the castle in her mind, labelling and annotating it before daring to decorate the images with fantasies of medieval knights and elegant princesses.

Even childish imaginings and day dreams were more worthwhile than listening to Mycroft.

'For heaven's sake,' he huffed, leaning across to pull the carriage curtain shut, blocking out the object of Sherlock's musings and leaving them soaked in stuffy lamp light. 'You mustn't behave like this way when we arrive.'

'I don't quite know what you mean, brother dear.'

'Sarcasm doesn't become you.'

'And the the extra few pounds you're carrying don't become you, either, but I was holding my tongue.'

'Sherlock -'

'Perhaps you ought you cut down on the afternoon teas, Mycroft. For the sake whatever poor wench you inevitably enslave.'

' _Marry_ , you mean _marry_. And it isn't me who should be concerned about marriage prospects - I'll have you know there are several eligible gentlemen in attendance today which I except you to make acquaintance with.'

And there it is, the proposition that always left Sherlock pulling at her corset, twisted and uncomfortable, the laces too tight, the panels misfitting. That clunky awkwardness and feeling of apprehension overpowered any fervid emotions that the thought of being chained to some pompous, self righteous man stirred up. It was something more than distaste for her sex's lot and inequality, so much more. Sherlock was certain that, whether romance decided to pay her a visit or not, it would not be the male species that was her concern.

 

* * *

 

_1st January, 1778_

Joan didn't want to watch, but Marcus and his mistress were waltzing without shame, the picture of blossoming romance. Maintaining any form of grudge would be fruitless, an unnecessary strain on her already dwindling supply of emotional energy; Marcus would never give up Diane de Lesseps, with her ridiculous name and simpering French accent. If theirs had been a marriage worth fixing, perhaps Joan ought to have tried, but she was unashamedly relieved. With Diane fulfilling Marcus' every whim, Joan didn't even have to look at him, let alone touch him.

'I'm told it's customary to dance with your wife at these sort of things, not your illicit lover,' a disembodied voice, rich with aristocracy and warmth, drawled from over Joan's shoulder. The voice alone was enough to tear Joan's attention away from her self pitying, and she turned, choking down her last gulp of syrupy wine in panic, then in awe. The voice's owner was ethereal. Packaged in thick purple silk, her figure shined like amethyst, pearl skin flickering gold in the saturated gas light. That face was almost chiselled, with its lines running sharp over high cheekbones and turning soft at the button shaped tip of her nose. Unlike Joan's mountain of a headpiece, this lady's brunette curls hung more freely from the crown of her head - those strands hinted at rebellion and begged to be touched.

'What about the abandoned wife dancing with strange women,' Joan returned, a little too tipsy from the wine to fear the repercussions of her forwardness. 'Is that customary?'

It didn't earn her a dance, but it earned a bashful smile. A pleasant start.

'Uh, introductions, I - Sherlock Holmes.'

'Yes, what about her?'

'That's me, I'm Sherlock Holmes. And I can tell from your cheating husband and slight weakness of the left leg that you're Joan Watson, Duchess of Northumberland.'

 

* * *

 

_15th January 1778_

'You're so beautiful,' Joan breathed, her voice sending soft vibrations down her throat to where Sherlock's cheek was nestled against her collarbone. Their skin was one single plane; the many blankets tickled both their shoulders, soft calves slotted together like puzzle pieces, Sherlock's ribcage fitting perfectly against the dip of Joan's waist.

'Mm. Flatterer.'

If Sherlock was beautiful, Joan was beyond comprehension. She was a Boucher painting, all soft lines and glowing skin that begged to be touched. And when you did touch her, as Sherlock had touched her, she wasn't delicate, but she wasn't hard. Joan's body was a force. Her body demanded space, and it deserved it. It demanded space, and it demanded worship; Sherlock could only bare to grant it the latter.

'S'true though.'

And there was the most intimate thing. Joan Watson, esteemed aristocrat, had been stripped away to reveal a fallible woman. A woman who slurred her words in the morning, cursed like a sailor, and possessed the temper of an army general to boot.

A woman who also, fortunately, loved other women.

'Nonsense.'

'You see the way the light is shining out of the window? The moonlight? When you look up at me like that it runs along the side of your jaw, and the tendons of your neck, and down your breast. You look ethereal, Sherlock. You look like the fairies in the stories my nanny used to tell me.'

Joan's smile was just as magnificent as the rest of her. A little guarded at first, but then breaking into a bright grin. She should smile more. She should have someone to make her smile.

'Joan?'

'Mm hm?'

'Do you love Marcus?

Joan's smile fell, but a fraction of the glimmer in her eye remained; perhaps it was for Sherlock. No. No, she did not have the right to presume that. Sherlock had only been staying at Alnwick for a fortnight whilst the coach was fixed (and Mycroft sat around and accused her of sabotage). That was hardly enough time to develop /feelings/, let alone develop them for someone as unloveable as her.

'Sherlock, I - '

At the first roll of her stomach, Sherlock buried her face deeper into Joan's neck.

'No, no. Don't hide. I don't love Marcus, Sherlock. Of course I don't. Have you seen the way he dances with all these other women? He's cold, and cruel, and he sure as hell doesn't love me. All he wants is an heir, and I'm bloody well inclined not to give him one.'

'Oh?'

'Yes, you git. And, quite frankly, he's terrible in bed. Not a scratch on you, Miss Holmes.' Joan's laughter was a thousand orchestras, and it shook down to her fingertips, which were running softly over the prickling skin of Sherlock's shoulder. 'No. Not a single scratch.'

 

* * *

 

_22nd February, 1779_

My dearest Sherlock,

You must have heard by now that Marcus' mistress has moved in with us. The castle, or at least the habitable parts, are thick with tension; I don't hate Madame de Lesseps, as it is very hard to hate someone as vapid and lacking in personality as Diane, but I hate what her presence means. I know Marcus wants a son and heir. Perhaps even just a child would be received with something other than disappointment. But you know how all our, for lack of a better word, endeavours have failed, and of course you know how far from disappointed I am at our childlessness. But now I have been replaced, and regardless of whether or not I love Marcus, I do not love being replaced.

I can't help but think how you would not replace me this way. When I see you watching me - and don't think I don't see you - I see the way your focus is totally absorbed. You must know I watch you the same way?

Please forgive my gushing. I've had a little to drink, you see, and things are so much easier to write down than to say out loud. I mean it all, sober or otherwise. Please meet me again? I need to see you urgently.

Yours,

Joan

 

* * *

 

_8th October, 1779_

'Run away with you?'

'Yes, Joan. That's what I said, isn't it?'

Freedom. That's what Sherlock was promising. It seemed a world away in this library, tucked away amongst bibles and science books and biographies. Hidden, like common criminals and conspirators. Like sinners. Freedom was the forbidden fruit.

When Joan had asked to meet Sherlock today, she had almost expected it to be a goodbye. Affairs like this, being the women they were, did not last forever. The Holmes family would finally succeed in marrying Sherlock off to some Duke or Lord, whisking her away from Joan's arms and into some cold manor house. She was already old for a bride, and Mycroft had been eyeing up countless potential suitors, in more ways that one, according to his sister. Apparently queerness ran in the family.

And yet here she was, Joan's wonderful lover, the most fascinating story in this whole library, asking for more.

'Where to?'

'I've been saving up for a flat in London.'

' _A flat_?'

'Well, you've always said that you hated living in a _castle_.'

'Well, what would we do?'

'I already have an in at the courts, Joan. It's perfect! You can write your journals, or take up nursing, whilst I solve crimes. Or you could accompany me. Goodness knows I'll need someone who can shoot a pistol when I'm up against the vagabonds of London.  
'I know a lady who runs these flats on Baker Street - she used to be our housekeeper until her husband died - and she'll never ask questions or charge us too much rent...'

'Sherlock.'

'So we don't have to worry about Mrs Hudson. Mycroft would be willing to divvy out my allowance. He's been looking to get shot of me for years, and I think we can all agree this is a far less messy way of doing it than sending me off with _Lord Moriarty_ , that wretched - '

'Sherlock!'

Sherlock's babbling mouth slammed shut with a comical pop.

'I'm the Duchess of Northumberland. I can't just run away. I have responsibilities, a reputation, a _husband_. People will miss me.'

Eyes beginning to water, Sherlock had turned her head away, but the angle and dim shadows did little to hide her broken expression and wobbling lip. It did nothing to cover her tiny voice, either, which came out so incredibly fragile, as thin as paper.

'Not as much as I will.'

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock used to love coach rides alone. Hours spent with the sound of your own breath, rolling wheels, and the rhythmic clattering of horse hooves; enclosed in this bubble of sound and warmth, one could be that still, intimate part of themselves that exists in the mind. There was nothing and no one to disturb or expect anything. Sherlock had always found peace like this.

Now the coach seemed to rattle more without the weight of another body. The bench was cold without its warmth, the coach empty and bleak without another person's breathing, heartbeat, meaningless chatter. The repetitive English countryside that rolled past the window looked as if it was imprinted on the rain streaked glass; all the slumped hills, weeping trees, and dirty clouds merged into one final picture of misery. It was just all so incredibly boring.

Joan hadn't been boring.

'What on earth? Miss Holmes, I - I have to stop the carriage one moment.'

'Make it quick. I'm measuring the rate of moss growth on various surfaces and I need to get home to record my results before they spoil.'

There was some clattering as the driver left the coach box, and the sounds of four human feet shuffling in the mud. The second pair were smaller, lighter, slipping slightly in the rain, but in stepping in a manner that indicated a rigid posture born of a higher class upbringing and -

'Sherlock Holmes! If you're thinking of leaving me in the rain for the sake of your moss experiment I might have to rethink this entire arrangement.'

Joan. Joan Watson, in the flesh, was clambering through the side door. She slid it shut with slippery hands; the foul weather hadn't left a single part of Joan untouched. She was drenched and bedraggled from head to toe; the stodgy fabric of her dress was soaked through, with the once precise white ruffles drooping off her wrists like dead snow drops. Looking upwards, Joan's hair was the same, sitting awkwardly on top of her head and slipping forward onto her face in string. Fat drops of water ran their way down the curves of her eyelashes and nose, dissipating into smaller streams to run down her flushing cheeks.

'Joan?' Sherlock's voice was breathy, tasting the name mixed in with the scent of rain and dirt. They were enclosed by the smell, encased in their own bubble by the roaring of what was now a fully fledged storm. 'What - I - it's raining?'

John just smiled a watery smile and knelt down on the floor, looking up at Sherlock with a warmth to her features that did not belong in this winter.

'Miss Holmes, I'm terribly sorry about the sudden nature of my visit.'

'No, you're not.'

'Quite right. I'm not sorry at all. That's what I came to tell you, Sherlock. I am not sorry about us, despite my turning you down earlier. Good heavens, no. I will never apologise for loving you. I do not feel guilty when my heart swells at the sound of your voice, or at the look on your face after I kiss you.'

'Joan. You - you you don't have to do this. I know how much you hate to discuss your feelings with anyone - '

'No -' Joan's objection was cut short by the coach abruptly lurking forward; where she was knelt was precarious, and she only just managed to grab hold of the bench to stop herself from being flung about violently. 'No, I do. I will never forgive myself if I let you go again.'

The roar of the rain had leaked into Sherlock's head. Behind her eyelids, in her ears, at the back of her throat. Fingers beginning to numb in shock, she felt the smooth panels of Joan's own slick hands; one at a time, she ran both their hands over the mass of skirt fabric that had amounted between them, eventually settling Joan's hands on her own hips.

'It's true that I am a duchess, and married to a powerful and strict man. I have many things expected of me, and none of them I have any interest in fulfilling. This is the life that has been laid out for me, and will be laid out for you, too.

'When I think about you living that life, I cannot help but feel just so incredibly sickened. You, my wonderful Sherlock, should never be stifled by marriage or treated as a means to an heir. I just won't have it. You deserve your freedom, at the very least. And I'm beginning to think that perhaps I do, too.

I took the cowards way out when I told you I would not run away with you. I have always prided myself on bravery, but I failed you. So would you, my love - would you forgive me? Would you let be brave for you?'

 

  

* * *

 

_1st January, 1780_

Sherlock's lips tasted like tobacco. Not the discreet kind of snuff that ladies indulged in, but the genuine kind that was smoked in pipes and hurt your lungs. One thing Joan hadn't known in those months of sneaking behind Marcus' back was that Sherlock smoked so much that their bedroom would smelt like a tavern. That was Sherlock through and through - never a lady. This was best displayed in the wee hours of the morning when, despite being capable of perfect renditions of Bach and countless other musical geniuses, Sherlock would instead treat the flat to a sympathy of assorted squeals and string plucking.

'I used to hate dancing, you know.'

There was no music now, discordant or otherwise. Instead the room was filled with soft breaths and the shuffling of feet as Joan and Sherlock held each other close, half waltzing, half stumbling around the sitting room.

'Hm,' Sherlock hummed, before her expression melted from aloof (but failing) to flirtatious. 'And yet you offered me a dance on our first night.'

'In another world, we would have danced that whole night.'

'And yet in this world, we're doing exactly that.'

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> HISTORICAL CONTEXT
> 
> Google the life of Georgiana Cavendish (Duchess of Devonshire) - she was very real, and strong, and I had to change the ending because she didn't get the happy ending I wanted to give johnlock. Honestly, the film is tragic!
> 
> Also the Duke of Northumberland did live in Alnwick castle (which is a really cool place btw, they filmed a bit of Harry Potter there - I've been). At the time this fic is set the duke would have been Hugh Percy, with the duchess being Elizabeth Percy. According to Wikipedia.
> 
> Marcus and Dianne are not real, they're supposed to be genderbent Mary and David. I don't know why I made Dianne French. It just sort of happened. 
> 
> Tweet me at @smolholmes or message me on tumblr (I'm aceholmes) if you're curious about anything and I'll make an answer up to make it look like I'm smart!!


End file.
